


Bad Dream Baby

by fieryphrazes



Series: songfic [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:15:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21612865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fieryphrazes/pseuds/fieryphrazes
Summary: John knew everything about this man, shared every day with him; but there were moments like this, when Sherlock seemed unreachable. Like he had crossed some wide sea or learned a new language when John wasn’t looking. The only thing John could do was hold him close.John was nearly asleep when Sherlock spoke.“It’s always the same dream,” he said softly.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: songfic [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1346809
Comments: 6
Kudos: 88





	Bad Dream Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [Bad Dream Baby by Springtime Carnivore](https://youtu.be/qaJ__DhqbTU), a heartbreaking & beautiful song that called out to me. The most eloquent parts of Sherlock's confession are pulled almost directly from the lyrics.

John heard the dreams.

Of course he did – how could he not? More nights than not, Sherlock muttered in his sleep, tossed in the bed, and woke with a jerk.

Most nights, John was right there with him.

They slept upstairs in John’s room these days. Sherlock’s old room stood empty and dusty, scraps of paper still laying where they’d fallen – back before Sherlock had fallen.

When Sherlock once again darkened the door of 221B, neither he nor John showed any interest in that bedroom. So it sat empty.

And that’s why John had such trouble sleeping.

“Bad dream?” He asked over a cup of tea one morning.

“Hm?” Sherlock was only half-listening, but John looked at him expectantly. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just random neural firings, the brain at rest.”

John kept an eye on Sherlock, tracking him as he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a container full of something that had been recently alive. John didn’t want to know anything more about the contents.

“Is that really all you think dreams are?” John asked, not really expecting an answer. Sherlock surprised him, as he so often did.

“Of course it’s not all they are,” Sherlock snapped back. “The electrical impulses are random. The brain activity is random. The story your mind creates… that comes from somewhere deeper.” Sherlock frowned as he opened the container.

The smell of formaldehyde drifted over the kitchen, and John fled to the sitting room to finish his tea in peace.

If whatever he was dreaming bothered Sherlock, he never revealed it to John – at least while he was awake.

John was getting used to the grumbling and mumbling in the nighttime. Sherlock never shouted, after all, and John liked keeping him nearby.

John took the stairs slowly – focusing his attention on keeping his grip on the railing. Perhaps he’d had a bit too much, he realized as he climbed, but Molly would only get engaged once – hopefully.

They’d met at a pub near St. Bart’s, him and Mike and Molly, and anyone else she could scrounge up on short notice. She wanted to show them the ring, and be toasted, and tell the story of how it happened over and over again.

John was quite happy to buy a round or two, and drink even more.

But now he clattered up the stairs of Baker Street, probably waking Mrs. Hudson and distracting Sherlock from some sensitive experiment.

John was surprised to find the kitchen empty – slides abandoned on the microscope.

He shrugged off his jacket and headed for the stairs, when he saw Sherlock curled into the sofa.

He looked so small, so fragile – his face turned toward the back of the sofa, arms held protectively around his middle. John felt the overwhelming need to be close to him.

He went to Sherlock and sat in the space made by his bent knees, a triangle of cushion left bare between his bum and feet. John laid a hand gently on Sherlock’s upper arm, bent down, and pressed a lingering kiss to his temple.

As John leaned close, the lamplight caught Sherlock’s cheek – the track of a tear. John brushed it away and curled his hand into Sherlock’s hair.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Hey, come to bed.” Sherlock let out an involuntary murmur as he returned to consciousness. Slowly, he let John sit him up and guide him up the stairs and into their bed.

John pulled Sherlock close to him. He knew everything about this man, shared every day with him; but there were moments like this, every once in a while, when Sherlock seemed unreachable. Like he had crossed some wide sea or learned a new language when John wasn’t looking. The only thing John could do was hold him close, grounded in the way their bodies fit together, in the way every part of him recognized Sherlock and knew him. Loved him.

John was nearly asleep when Sherlock spoke.

“It’s always the same dream,” he said softly. John tensed slightly.

“I’m standing there, on the roof of Bart’s,” Sherlock continued. “I see you down below, walking on the pavement. Moriarty’s behind me, already dead, and I know I have to jump. The only thing I want –“ John realized Sherlock was crying. He did the only thing he could do: he held him.

“The only thing I want is to hear your voice. I know it could be the last time,” Sherlock grew more and more agitated as he forged ahead. “I just want to hear you, and to say goodbye. In case it’s the last time.”

John methodically ran a hand up and down Sherlock’s back, silently telling him _I’m here, I’m here, I’m here._

“I’m going through my pockets, searching for my phone, and I can’t find it anywhere. I can’t find it, and you’re walking away. Your back’s to me. You don’t see me. I shout, I scream until my throat burns, but no sound comes out. You can’t hear me. You never turn around,” Sherlock’s voice broke, barely able to finish.

“I don’t even get to wave goodbye.”

The words, the frailty of Sherlock’s voice, they both hollowed out John. It crushed him. So many of their moments together returned to him in that instant; Sherlock texting him constantly, reaching out in his sleep towards John, finding his eyes at a crime scene for a silent consultation. He pulled Sherlock closer to him, then closer still. Sherlock’s hands curled around his shoulders hungrily.

“I’m here,” he said, pressing kisses to Sherlock’s wet cheeks. “I’m here, I’m here.”

Eventually they fell asleep there, exhausted and raw.

In the morning, Sherlock smiled shyly at John, but did not mention the dream. John decided to follow his lead.

That afternoon, John lugged groceries up to the flat. As he puttered around the kitchen, Sherlock sat at the table, seemingly absorbed in his experiment. But John knew better; his neck was a bit too tense, his attention a bit too focused. It all seemed artificial to someone who really knew Sherlock. John sighed, crossing his arms and leaning against the worktop.

“I’m done dancing around this, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked up, confused. John volleyed back with a strong, level gaze.

“I’m in love with you,” John said. Sherlock’s mouth slipped open.

“I love you and I’m never going to leave you. I’m never going to be out of reach.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“John, you can’t promise that,” he said. “Look at what’s already happened. It could happen again!”

John leaned forward, bracing himself on the table, eye to eye with Sherlock.

“Think about what we’ve faced,” he said softly. “Think about all the people who have gotten in our way,” John’s gaze was steel, pinning Sherlock in place. “And where are they now?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but seemed lost for words – nothing came out.

“Sherlock, you’re an unstoppable force. You always get what you want,” John continued. “Even me.”

Sherlock grinned hungrily.

“If I’m an unstoppable force, does that make you an immovable object?” He asked John, who replied with his own grin.

An hour or so later, they lay in bed, tangled in the sheets. John lazily stroked Sherlock’s arm, extending the afterglow as long as he could. Sherlock tightened his grip where he was wound around John like a vine.

“I love you too, you know,” he said quietly. John smiled softly before replying.

“I know.”


End file.
